


Right There

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Dean Winchester, Caring Sam Winchester, Cas Just Needs A Little TLC, Gen, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), No Serious Hurt, The Winchesters Take Care of Castiel, stubborn angel, wing fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 17:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21060173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Cas gets cursed by a witch while protecting the brothers, which leaves him with a pair of wings needing some impromptu care.If the brothers can just get him to let him in the damn room.





	Right There

“This is such bullshit,” Dean says, and shrugs at Sam when his brother glares at him. “Cas, c’mon, open the door or I’m kicking it in.”

“Dean,” Sam hisses, but what the hell does he want from him? How dumbass is it that their angel is suffering on one side of the door and they’re locked out in the hall.

“I mean it,” Dean says, tone leaving no doubt he will put his boot to the wood, and he glares right back at Sam to make sure he knows it too. “Cas?”

“Have you ever thought,” Sam says, “that maybe this is some kind of angel taboo?”

Dean huffs at him; if there is such a thing, it didn’t stop Cas flaring his wings like a grumpy peacock that first night in the old barn so he certainly isn’t letting the angel hide behind it now.

“Then he’ll just have to suck it up and open the door,” Dean insists, raising his voice on the last few words. He presses his ear to the wood but doesn’t hear anything like a certain feathery dumbass moving to let him in.

“Or maybe he’s just embarrassed.”

Dean colours, a little, at that. Okay, that’s also possible, and he’s been on the receiving end of a few cringeworthy curses in his time and okay, on each occasion if it wasn’t life threatening and it just had to wear off, he’d taken to his room and thrown a boot or something at Sam if he so much as stuck his head around the door.

But this is different. This is _Cas_, and Dean is not okay being shut out when one of his family needs him.

“That’s it,” he says. “Move your ass, I’m putting it in.”

Before he can step back for room to move, though, the lock clicks, the handle turns, and the door swings quietly open.

They look in.

Cas is sitting on the bed, knees hunched up against his chest, arms wrapped around them, and his head bowed.

And his wings.

Holy actual shit, his wings.

The room isn’t wide enough for them to reach their full span, Dean figures, since they’re kind of hunched in, but it does stop him - Sam too, he guesses, because he can almost hear Sam’s brain going offline and any minute, it’ll come back on in nerd mode - in his tracks.

He tries not to notice where there are badly healed breaks, and huge bare patches, all of it the scars of what Metatron did.

Instead he focuses on the fact that the wings look red and sore and they’re trembling.

He kind of regrets being such an asshole before, but it worked, and now they need to step up.

He nudges Sam, gives him a warning look that hopefully communicates this is Cas, not a science project, so wind it in, and then steps into the room.

“Cas. Can we, uh...help you out, here?”

Cas looks up with a sigh, and Dean can read a whole hell of a lot into that, like the angel’s probably been trying everything before resigning himself to the fact that he needed some assistance.

“They won’t stop itching.”

“I know.” Dean edges a little closer on one side of the bed, Sam mirroring him on the other, and nearer in it’s easy to see where Cas has been roughly scratching: feathers are displaced, the flesh beneath looking red raw and bloody in places.

One time, when their prank war had lasted longer than usual, Sam had (falsely) claimed victory by tipping a tub of itching powder into Dean’s underwear drawer.

Occasionally, when Dean wants his own way on something, he’ll bring that up, and Sam yields, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself.

As he should, because Dean had clawed himself raw to the point he’d had to lie naked on top of the covers because even the lightest of sheets was like steel wool against his skin.

He figures that’s where Cas is now, just tolerating it with angelic stoicism.

And he has another reason to hate witches now, not all of them, just the ones throwing curses at their angel when he stops them murdering his humans.

He _shushes_ Cas, gently, and rubs his hand down the wing closest to him, feels it gently settle before it actually pushes up into his touch almost like a cat.

He hopes Cas didn’t hear that one, but he takes the hint and does it again, running his fingers gently through feathers, scritching a little, just tucking his fingers under so his nails skim the feathers and the flesh beneath.

The wing twitches, but Dean knows the difference beneath relief and discomfort, and he looks over to see Cas’s eyes are closed and some of that tightness has left his body.

Sam’s doing the same as Dean, a little more carefully, almost...reverently, and Dean catches his eye and hopes his brother gets the message.

Sam nods, and starts working his fingers through Cas’s feathers and the happy sound Cas makes is just worth everything.

The curse will pass, another few hours at most, and so what if they do spend most of them providing gentle wing scratches to their angel?

Dean can’t think of time better spent.


End file.
